


The Ruins We Have Built

by SomeEnchantedEve



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Angst, Arranged Marriage, F/M, Gen, Miscarriage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-31
Updated: 2012-03-31
Packaged: 2017-11-02 19:07:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,910
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/372330
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SomeEnchantedEve/pseuds/SomeEnchantedEve
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For the <a href="http://clashofqueens.livejournal.com/1527.html">Minor ASOIAF Character Ficathon</a>. </p><p>Prompt: A look at Jon Arryn and Lysa Tully's unhappy marriage, through Jon's eyes. </p><p>"There is a brief moment, it comes but once, when he thinks that perhaps their marriage can come to if not a place of love, then at least a place of peace and quiet contentment. "</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Ruins We Have Built

**Author's Note:**

> What started as a look at the Jon Arryn/Lysa relationship ended up being an outlet for ALL MY JON ARRYN FEELS. 
> 
> I just love what he was to Robert and Ned. And it's sad that his marriage to Lysa was so full of tragedy, and really was, in the end, neither of their faults.

There is a brief moment, it comes but once, when he thinks that perhaps their marriage can come to if not a place of love, then at least a place of peace and quiet contentment. 

Jon Arryn does not crave the love of this Tully girl he has taken to wife, does not need the sullen eyes of his child-bride to tell him that he is not the husband she had desired, that he does not quite belong where he stands in the sept, next to a boy – now a man, now a lord – that had been nearly a son to him, across from two red-haired girls both young and fair. 

Love matters not, he is too old for such things and they belonged to another life and another lady for him (they, on the other hand, are all young and eager, he thinks). What matters is that in one fell swoop they marry Hoster Tully to their rebellion (Robert’s Rebellion, he hears it called, that will be the song they sing; Robert fighting for his lady fair, and he smiles, _just so_ and he continues to quietly pull the strings). 

He had been surprised at the proposal of Lord Tully’s; they had agreed to marry Ned to his brother’s betrothed, and yet when they had arrived at Riverrun, Tully’s mouth had been set in a firm line. _My daughter_ , he had said, _a word about my other daughter, my Lysa._

Of course he agrees, what other choice is there, he has raised his banners and is branded a traitor and there is no retreating now. And even if he could, he would not, he stands firmly besides the Stormlands and the North, Robert Baratheon and Eddard Stark, he would never – could never – turn his back to them. And she is pretty, and young, and fertile, he is promised, (young and fertile and _stained_ , he is told) for all that the proof of such turns his stomach, and there is still that longing for a child, an heir, a _son_ , a son such as those two boys he goes to war for had been to him, but of his own flesh to inherit his lands. 

He stands across from Lysa Tully in the sept and she frowns when he clasps his blue cloak about her slim shoulders as he had done to two ladies before her, and Jon thinks (he knows) _this shall never grow to love._

But there is the moment later when the war is past, where she comes to his solar, and there is careful hope rather than bitter duty in her eyes, and she tells him that she is with child. He smiles, cautiously; he hopes, cautiously; he reaches out and she does not pull away when he rests his hand (still oh so cautiously, he knows how quickly these little things may flutter away) on her stomach, still flat beneath her gown. 

She does not flinch or frown, and he thinks, then, _perhaps, perhaps this will grow to at least something_. 

(It grows into nothing, it grows not at all, it is blood and blood and blood, again and again.) 

They come as a parade of missed opportunities and might-have-beens, the babes that never had a chance to be, his wife labors and brings forth death. He stops hoping, stops smiling when she tells him each time, and each time, the bitterness in her eyes gleams a bit brighter, her voice is a bit more strained. 

Whatever he had thought they could build, for that singular moment, is like a castle of sand upon the shore – the waves pound it and it is turned to dust and nothingness. Whenever he takes her to bed, their misery lies between them like a familiar friend beneath the sheets. 

He sees the strain in Lysa’s face, in her body, in her eyes, until she is no slim pretty thing that he wed in the Riverlands, but a matron of misery and broken promises. _I should comfort her_ , he thinks, after the second stillborn babe and after three miscarriages, _I should offer her solace_. 

Lysa Tully flinches from his touch, as though his very hand drove the child from her body, and he does not try and reach for her with compassion again, for the rest of their marriage. 

“This is your fault, not mine,” she tells him one day, voice shrill and raspy with tears and shift streaked with blood and loss. “You will _never_ give me a son. I never wanted this.” ( _I never wanted you_ , is what she means.)

His jaw twitches, a lesser man would not take such words, would remind this girl who unravels before him, more and more with each lost little one, _I know what you are, the dishonors you’ve done, and I did not want you, either._

But Jon Arryn had always strived to be more than a lesser man, so he sets his face to stone, his voice cool, “I shall send for a midwife to see to you.”

One day there is a child’s cry in addition to his wife’s, in the birthing room, and suddenly he has a son, and suddenly he is alive (but he is small, and weak, but Jon loves him regardless). He grows, if less than other boys still no less suddenly, before he can tell. Perhaps he is too busy, perhaps it is too late for him and a trueborn son, perhaps it is because Lysa keeps him to herself, her singular prize, her reason to live, the fruits of all of her labors (again and again and again, he thinks). 

The next child is born dead, and Lysa screams, and laughs, and cries and cries, and Jon has to leave the room to escape the sounds of pieces of her sanity, slipping away, _madness_ , he thinks dully, _it is all madness_ , and long ago he promised to stop offering comfort that she so clearly did not wish (not from him, certainly). 

She holds the living boy all the closer, smothering him to her bosom, and Jon realizes, one day, just how grown his son has become. _He is my heir_ , he thinks dully as the child throws a fit and upends his plate, petulant as a toddler, and Lysa rushes to soothe him with honeyed words and a suck of mother’s milk.

“He merely has a delicate temper,” she says, stubbornly, voice high, when he broaches the subject, and Jon sets his mouth to a firm line, _then he must learn to not be delicate, this is not a world for delicate creatures_. 

He lets her go blissfully unaware – he has seen how quickly her mood shifts from subdued to wild and full of rage when the issue of their boy is concerned (their boy, not her boy, and all the ones they have lost and all the ones that never were.) He resolves he will not be tired, will not be weary, will not let her win, for all that he has done for those two boys he raised almost as his own, raised banners and fought wars to keep them safe, he can do the same for his true son. _I owe him that much, I must prepare him to take his place in the world._

Often he wonders how he got to this place, with this woman, at this court, with this king. At night he lies alone and is plagued with doubts of days long gone, the feet of his young wards dashing along the stairs outside his solar, _did I ask too much of you, my boys?_ Perhaps it had all been foolish, been a poor decision to place Robert on the throne, he could have saved them still without claiming a crown, and there had been the little ones, Elia’s children and the boy, Viserys, perhaps, with a strong, good council…

It does no good to wonder, he reminds himself firmly, Robert is king ( _long may he reign, gods, especially now…_ ) and a lioness of the Rock his queen, beautiful and deadly and dangerous (and rich, he must not forget rich). And so Jon drowns himself in work and treaties, Lysa drowns herself in motherhood and martyrdom and counts their tiny boy’s each breath, the king drowns himself in women and wine, and if they are unhappy, Jon tells himself, at least they were _right_. 

As high as honor, he reminds himself. 

He thinks of Ned keeping to his northern castle, the home he never thought to inherit, with his own Tully bride and the redheaded children she gives him, and he is glad that one of them, at least, is happy (he hopes, at least, that Ned is happy, and hopes that Lady Stark is a steadier creature than Lady Arryn). He is glad, but how terribly he misses that solemn-faced lad. 

_Come visit_ , he writes, _it would gladden Robert’s heart and my own to see you again_ , and selfishly he hopes his wife’s sister may soothe her erratic temper. Ned’s replies are always warm but it is always next year, next year, there is unrest with the mountain clans, next year, Catelyn is with child, perhaps next year, we must prepare, _winter is coming_. 

His Grace King Robert laughs (but always with an edge, anymore, Jon thinks) and roars for more wine, more food, more music, more ladies, more coin, always more, more, more, and the excess is written across his brow and body; this is a court teetering on the edge of madness, full to bursting with its own decadence. The coffers empty and King Robert roars for more, and desperately, seeing his successes in Gulltown, Jon brings his wife’s childhood friend to court to serve on the council.

His wife is happier than he has seen her in years, perhaps since that day in the solar where he had hoped for one brief moment, he has finally done something to please her by bringing that skinny whelp to court to count coins and balance the royal debt. She follows after him as though in a dream or perhaps as though she has waken from a nightmare, and she shames Jon before the court, unable to keep longing from her eyes and in the tremble of her fingers when they push through her son’s hair (her son, she always says her son, never theirs). And there is Baelish, always with a smirk, he always smiles, and smiles, smiles at them all as though he holds a secret.

Jon knows he should care more, protest, raise a fuss, banish the boy (hardly a man yet) for his upstart ways and presumption.

He does not. 

He has her watched, discreetly, she has shamed herself before and cannot do so again, he will not give a bastard the name Arryn, but says nothing to her swoons and sighs. _Let her find joy where she must_ , he thinks wearily, because gods help him, he needs the peace. He is too old and weary to fight such a battle every day, and there are bigger demons on the horizon.

He folds his letter to Stannis Baratheon, _I am so sorry, Robert_ , and he is even sorry for his wife, a little bit, _but he is my son, too, and he shall inherit all that I have_.

The raven flies, and he thinks of Ned’s last letter – winter is coming, yes, he thinks (and how soon it will arrive).


End file.
